


Questions Unanswered

by SirLadySketch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And not in the fun NSFW way, F/M, Gen, I lied I'm sorry this sort of ends on an angsty note, Maintaining a friendship when both parties wish it was still a romance, Solavellan, Such is this ship, We shall all go down with it, asking advice from friends, awkward post-relationship conversations, not quite angst, post-Crestwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5222453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirLadySketch/pseuds/SirLadySketch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does one go about talking to the Inquisition's expert on the Fade and all things Elvhen when it's your ex-boyfriend? Post-Crestwood, in which Inquisitor Lavellan had questions that only Solas can answer, but she's not really sure how to keep it professional when he refuses to answer the questions she really wants to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crafting Hour with Blackwall (aka using knives to deal with feelings)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic comes a few days after my previous work, "In Strength, Solace", which you can read here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3769720

Blackwall was learning to appreciate the little things in life. After revealing his true identity to the Inquisitor and her subsequent pardon, he’d vowed that he would try to make amends for all that he had done. He’d returned to Skyhold a new man with purpose. The Inquisitor bade him to be the man that he’d pretended to be, to become a man who proved that you could turn your life around, and that people who made mistakes could—and should— be forgiven. He vowed to double his efforts against Corypheus, doing what he could for the refugees and offering assistance where he could.

Unfortunately, his crimes were still fresh in the minds of the people, and when he was not outwardly snubbed or cursed, he was ignored. He’d known his penance would not be an easy one, but he’d hoped that people would be willing to give him a chance. As it was, he generally did what he could to help people without letting them know it was him—a stack of firewood here, extra food and supplies there, toys for the children of the refugees, a stout walking stick for a wounded soldier or an elderly pilgrim. Dennet still welcomed his help, at least, and a few of the Inquisitor’s companions still spoke to him, albeit a bit more coolly. 

The Inquisitor herself had been more forgiving, and had gone out of her way to stop by and speak with him, and to have him accompany her on some of her resource gathering expeditions, just to help him get away from the keep for a bit. After she’d returned from the Temple of Mythal, and with the incident with Solas in Crestwood, well… he couldn’t blame the woman for being preoccupied. He’d never really cared for Solas anyway—respected the man, yes, but the elf was a bit of a prig, and the Inquisitor could do better, if she looked beyond the rotunda.

So, when the Inquisitor stopped by the stables to visit the Lavellan hart, he’d given her a brief hello, not expecting her to stay long. When she asked to sit and join him while he carved, however, he heartily agreed. Perhaps she was at last starting to find herself again, to take an interest in the goings on beyond the Fade and heartbreak.

“Did you have a project in mind? Or do you just need to sharpen a stick?” he asked, and laughed when she gave him an odd look. “Sometimes it’s soothing to just see how the wood peels away under a blade. No expectations, just something to keep your hands busy while you wait.” He gave her a knowing smile. “And sometimes it’s nice to have a stick to poke people.”

“Oh, no,” she said with a quiet laugh, “I thought I would carve a totem, a little toy that I could give to some of the children here. We’ve been getting a few more Dalish families along with the sentinels, and I thought the communal toy box could use more heathen symbols.” She grinned, and whisper sotto voce, “Don’t let Cassandra or Mother Giselle know it was me.”

“I shan’t tell a soul,” he said, gesturing to the pile of wooden blocks for her to choose a size that suited her project. He selected a blade and whet stone for her while she picked through the blocks of wood, and pulled up a second chair before going back to his own work, a small marbari figure with lolling tongue. If the parents of the refugees didn’t want it, he could always leave it for the Commander to find.

The Inquisitor sat across from him, settling the loaf-sized block on her lap. She’d grabbed a stick of charcoal to sketch out her design, and he watched her, amused, glad to see her concentrate on something else.

“Will you be making a halla statue, then?” he asked, and she shook her head, smile still on her face, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes. 

“The Dalish make camp around shrines to Fen’Harel, and Keepers have small statues to lay outside of camp when there are no shrines nearby. They’re meant to protect and ward the camp from evil.” She picked up the knife to start cutting away the excess bits of wood. “I know that it brought me some comfort when I was young. Maybe some of the elven children would like it as well.”

“Ah,” he said, chewing on the thought for a moment. She’d never been overtly religious, and while she did have Dalish totems scattered around Skyhold, she kept an equal number of idols from other Thedan religions as well. Plus, after what’s they’d seen, religion was a bit… touchy, to say the least. Still…“Even after what you uncovered at the Temple of Mythal?”

“Especially so, yes,” she replied, giving up with the knife in favor of a small saw, finding it much easier to form the shape by cutting out chunks of the wood. She made quick work of it and picking up a file to round out the form. She continued speaking as her hands moved over the wood. “People seem to cling to their beliefs even more when everything they’ve seen suggests otherwise. It’s how the humans ended up with an elf as a herald of their god. Heathen crawls out of the Fade after the temple blows up, shining spirit guiding her—obviously the work of Andraste.”

She snorted, using the back of her hand to rub at her nose in a very unladylike (and certainly non-divine) manner, which smudged a bit of the charcoal across her nose. 

“Ah,” he repeated, not really sure how best to respond to that. She muttered an elven curse under her breath as she worked around what seemed to be a knot in the wood, apparently absorbed in the task of getting the shape down. She switched between blade and file, trying to hack out more of the wood to get the shape she wanted. 

Blackwall could have told her that she needed to slow down, that to get the level of precision she wanted in the statue she would need to really see the shape before she cut into the wood. If she kept at it as she was going, she would end up with the proverbial pointed stick. Still, in the end he took the more prudent path, and remained quiet. 

They worked for some time in companionable silence, nothing more than the quiet ‘shick’ of blade against wood, with the occasional animal call from the stables, or shouts of soldiers practicing in the yard. However, as time passed, the Inquisitor’s cuts took longer, and the pale shavings grew shorter and shorter, until at last she stopped, staring at the wood and knife in her hand, but clearly no longer seeing the questionably wolf-shaped block in her lap. Blackwall sighed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked at last, setting down his carving tools and folding his hands in his lap. She jumped, dropping the block of wood in her hands, nearly nicking herself on the blade.

“Talk about what?” she asked, picking up the dropped toy and pretending to focus on the toy again. She shifted the wood to start working at a new angle.

“It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company lass, but you only come down here when you’re upset about something,” he said, giving her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately, and Maker knows I’ve had times when talking about things would’ve helped. I might not be the best man for giving advice, but if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

“That won’t be—“ she cut herself off, frowning at the wood in her hands. “No, you’re right, I’m sorry. I know that the past few weeks have been difficult for you as well, and I meant to stop by more frequently, I just… I lost track of things. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

“That’s not what I meant, m’lady, and you know it,” he chided softly, and she flushed, still not looking at him. “I’m just saying, if you need to talk to someone, now that things aren’t good between you and Solas—“

“We’re just taking a break, refocusing on the mission to defeat Corypheus as quickly as possible,” she interrupted, looking up at last. They both knew she was stating it more for herself than for him, and when she looked up, it was not at Blackwall, but towards the round wall that shaped the keep’s rotunda.

“I mean no offense, m’lady, but if that’s the case, then, why are you down here with me and not up there with him?” he asked gently. She sighed, shoulders drooping, and she dropped the block of wood in her lap, bringing up a hand to rub at her temples.

“I just…. I have so many questions, and he won’t answer any of them. Not now,” she slouched in the chair to stare up at the rafters above. “He said he’ll tell me more later, once all of this mess with Corypheus is done. And I’m trying to respect that, trying to get things sorted out so we can kill the damn thing once and for all, but… it was so sudden that I’m feeling a bit lost.”

“Love can do that,” sighed Blackwall, picking up his project again and getting back to carving the dog’s mouth. 

“The worst part is I have legitimate, non-relationship related questions, but it’s so damn awkward between us now that I don’t want to go up and ask him,” she gave a frustrated huff. “I’d ask Morrigan, but she’s still in a snit about me stealing the power of the well from under her nose. And I’ve tried to ask the voices of the well, but it’s like they’re always whispering at the back of my mind, but as soon as I start to think of a question, they go silent. They don’t start up again until I think about something else.”

“If you think he has answers to things that could help you defeat Corypheus—“ he started, but she sat up, shaking her head and kicking her feet in the sawdust, glaring at the ground.

“That’s just it! They’re not about Corypheus, not directly. I have questions about the Temple, and about the Elvhen gods, and about what he said about the Vallaslin, and—Argh!“ she growled, falling into a sulk. “I just wish we could go back to the way things were, before….” 

She trailed off, looking lost, and Blackwall was reminded of how young their Inquisitor really was. Well, at least ten years younger than him, at any rate, which made her young enough. And from what he’d gleaned over their months of travel and their conversations during their down times, she’d not had much in the way of life experiences. Love, for instance. At the time of her miraculous survival at the conclave, she’d not yet experienced the painful, soul-wrenching love of finding someone who completed you, someone whom you needed by your side to give you the strength to go on. Not until Solas had come along, at least. 

He sighed, and reached forward to grasp her hands, cupping them gently. She looked up, startled, and he smiled at her, giving her hands a light squeeze.

“Lass, have you ever known Solas to be unkind? To say an unkind word that was not deserved, or to do something unkind for the sake of being cruel?” he asked.

“N-no…” she responded, confused by his gesture.

“Do you truly think that he would start to do something like that now, especially to the woman he loves?” he asked, and when she tried to jerk her hands away, he held her, firm, but gentle. “No. That’s not the man you or I have fought beside these long months. You know it, and I know it. He might be a bit of an ass at times, but he’s never been cruel.”

She dropped her eyes, starting at their hands, and he released one of them to gently pat her clasped hands. 

“Whatever the reason, we both know that he would not do such a thing unless he thought it was the best course of action. Solas never does anything without overthinking it,” he chuckled, and she gave a weak grin. “If he says that he thinks you need to refocus on the task at hand, then that’s what you do. He’ll explain when he’s ready.” 

He pulled back and patted her on the shoulder. “Until then, if you have questions and you think he’s the one who has the answers, ask him. I’ve never known Solas to give up the chance to hear himself speak.”

She snorted at that, but she smiled up at him, a bit of color back in her cheeks, and her posture a little straighter. 

“Thank you Thom,” she said, and he tried not to flinch at the name. Still, the way she said it, with actual gratitude and no hint of disgust or anger… well, it was good to hear the name spoken without the usual negative connotations attached. She stood up, resolved to her purpose, and he stood as well, deciding he’d escort her out of the barn, at least. She faltered as she realized that she’d forgotten the little wooden icon in her lap, and bent down to retrieve it.

“I’m afraid that I’ve still a ways to go when it comes to woodcarving,” she admitted, turning the roughly shaped block in her hands. It resembled more of a bear with pointed ears than a reclining wolf, and it rocked unevenly as she set it down on the table.

“You’re welcome to come down anytime to work on it,” he said. “Or, if your meeting with Solas goes south, you can come down and whittle yourself a nice sharp stick.”


	2. Let's play 20 Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remli seeks out Solas to get those answers to her questions. Solas doesn't have much to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edited 11/18 with the new angsty (but better) ending. Many thanks to Midna for the catch/suggestion! :)

Her confidence flagged a bit as she drew closer to the rotunda, in part because she was still unsure of how to broach the subject with Solas, and also because Varric was giving her the damnedest look, something between pity and resignation. She stiffened her spine, walking briskly past him, but faltered a bit at the door, trying to commit to actually going through with this. 

She could still go talk to Morrigan—order the woman to help her, if nothing else. But Kieran would be there, and she wasn’t up to dealing with the boy’s cryptic messages, and then there was the fact that she would have to talk to him at some point, since she planned to have him with her at their final battle, and she wanted to ask her companions personally, once she’d decided who would be there by her side. And besides, they were both adults, and he’d already said that she’d understand once everything was over. All she had to do was go through the door and ask him.

“You know, Longshot, pushing on the door is more effective than staring at it,” Varric said, interrupting her thoughts. She turned to give him a dirty look, and he laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Just saying! Last time I checked Chuckles hadn’t added a ward to the door, so you should be able to just go on through. You need me though, you call.”

She shook her head, but smiled and stuck her tongue out at him. Then, she took a deep breath, and pushed through to enter the rotunda.

It was… remarkably the same. She’d been in a few days prior, of course, and had noticed it then as well, but it still threw her off. She expected the room to feel cold, uninviting, and bleak, but it was just the same as ever. There was the lingering smell of freshly painted fresco overlapping the smell of Leliana’s birds. There were the murmurs of the researchers above, hard at work investigating who knew what, and above that, the complaints of ravens as they shifted about their cages. And Solas’ desk looked the same as it always did: slightly disorganized but retaining the appearance of distinction and importance. Unfortunately, it was also unoccupied.

She walked into the room, wondering where he might be, if not at his desk. She looked around, not seeing him on the scaffolding, or critically examining his work on the walls, nor was he sitting on the sofa. The place almost looked abandoned, and she fought down the inexplicable fear that he’d disappeared without saying goodbye.

“Solas?” she called, walking further into the room. When she got no reply, she called up to mage who always knew where everyone was, and what they were doing. “Dorian, have you seen Solas?” she asked, and the man leaned over the railing, tsking and shaking his head.

“It’s not my job to watch him, you know,” he complained, resting his chin on his hand and looking down at her. “I am trying to do some last minute research to see if there’s anything we might’ve overlooked. Not that I think we have, but it never hurts to be thorough, and there isn’t much else to do. Have you checked his room?”

“No,” she admitted, trying to remember the last time she’d visited him in his quarters. It had to have been months—he might have had the more comfortable bed, but she had the fireplace and private collection of spirits hidden away in her closet. The last time she’d seen it, the walls were still crumbling, and it was empty of most of the furniture. He’d said he didn’t bother adding more pieces to the room because he spent most of his time in the rotunda, and when he went to his room it was simply to sleep or change. So it was practical, if a bit sparse.

“He’s been burning the midnight oil, but even our Fade expert needs sleep sometimes. Best look for him there,” Dorian hesitated, as though he wanted to say something else, but shook his head and pushed off from the railing, apparently deciding against it. Remli wondered about that, briefly, since usually Dorian was not one to mince words. Maybe he thought she was being foolish, still reaching out to Solas after… whatever Crestwood had been. Then again, Dorian had been the one who found her when Solas left her standing alone in the little cave, and he’d swooped in to lift her up through that awful night. He’d been biting his tongue more frequently since then.

Regardless, Blackwall was right—she needed to clear the air, and Solas was one of the few people here that she could voice her worries to when it came to all things Elvhen. They were both adults, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t gone through months of merciless flirting before he’d actually responded to her advances. She missed talking to him, and given how little he interacted with the others, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was lonely, too.

She shifted her path and headed off towards the servants’ quarters, wondering if he’d open the door if she came, or if he’d think that she was trying to persuade him to change his mind by physical means. And to be honest, she might have, if she thought it would work, but Solas was too damned in control of his emotions, and if she couldn’t keep him by her side in a little cave that screamed sex in the moonlight, she doubted her chances would be good in a decrepit little room that smelled like centuries-old dust and crumbling wood.

She was halfway across the walk, chewing over what she’d say to delicately steer him into giving her some honest answers when the door to his room opened, and an elven woman stepped out. Remli stopped, trying to place the woman’s face. She was one of the servants, wasn’t she? One of the chambermaids? Doubtless she was there to tidy up the room and change linens. 

Remli’s eyes narrowed, and she fought down the flare of jealousy that shot through her. The woman bore no bundles, and why would you change the sheets when the occupant inside was supposedly sleeping? The woman had caught sight of Remli as well, and her face paled perceptively in recognition. She quickly drew herself up straight and thudded a chest across her chest in salute.

“Inquisitor!” she shouted, perhaps a bit more loudly then was warranted, given the fact that Remli was walking towards her. Still, the woman remained where she was, and Remli had to give her credit for not wavering. They were of the same height, and the woman’s hair had been cut in a similar style to her own. She was even bare-faced, a city elf, then, unless Solas had ‘freed’ her, too. Remli tilted her head back a little so that she could look down on the woman—petty, yes, but she wasn't feeling particularly friendly at the moment.

“Was there something you needed?” the woman asked when Remli just glared at her. The woman had a little quaver in her voice, and if she was a kinder person, Remli would have smiled a bit to make the woman relax. Unfortunately for the woman, while Remli might be willing to give Solas his space, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t get angry if she thought he’d dumped her for another woman without having the balls to tell her as such. 

Instead of replying, Remli deliberately shifted her gaze to Solas’ door, then back to the woman, who flushed with the unspoken implication and demand. The woman opened her mouth to speak, but the door in question opened, and Solas stepped out, followed by two elven men. 

One was the bar tender from The Herald’s Rest, a broad-shouldered man with an easy laugh and a skill for mixing just the right amount of alcohol to get you completely and utterly smashed in one drink or fewer. The other man was tall, even taller than Solas. He looked like one of the sentinels from the Temple of Mythal, except that his face was bare of markings as well. A truly freed elf, then.

For his part, Solas did not seem surprised to see her, although he frowned a little to see the territorial display happening just outside of his room. The other men bowed at her approach, but Solas was the one to speak.

“Inquisitor,” he said, tone light and formal. “Could I be of assistance?” 

She quashed the urge to glare, and forced herself to put on a smile. _Think of Orlais,_ she thought, allowing a vague expression of disinterested benevolence to settle on her face. _Think of the Game, and keep your hand close. Only play the card that will get you what you want. If you want to keep the upper hand, you have to play the part. Make the mask, keep it firmly in place._

Gods, but she had _hated_ Orlais.

“I had a few questions that I hoped I might run by you. Nothing urgent, nothing that requires immediate attention,” she said, and she almost believed herself. The other two men and the woman seemed to buy it, as they relaxed a little. “I can see that I interrupted something, however, so I’ll leave you to it. I apologize for the intrusion. Perhaps I can meet with you later, if you have a few moments to spare.”

Unfortunately, Solas had known her long enough to learn all of her bluffs. He smiled, that cool, detached smile that always seemed to be so damned patronizing, as if he had a big secret that made him better than everyone else. 

“Not at all,” he said, waving off the other with a nonchalant gesture. The three elves bowed—Remli couldn’t tell if it was at her or at Solas—and they fled the scene, no doubt relieved to get away from the suddenly tense atmosphere. Solas closed his door and stood at attention, hands behind his back. He tilted his head, waiting for her to speak, ever the patient hahren.

Usually she admired his ability to remain aloof, focused on what truly mattered. It had been a rough few days, however, and her patience wore thin. Perhaps she should have taken up Blackwall’s pointed stick offer after all.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever it was you were doing,” she said, although it came out a bit more waspish then she’d intended. He winced a little, although his face softened as he replied.

“With their duty gone, the sentinels are lost. Many of them have never known a life beyond servitude, and with no Well to protect, they seek guidance in finding a new purpose.” He smiled, “If they are to champion a new cause, why not have them here?” 

“And you would have them follow a shem elf leader?” she asked, not really buying it. She still remembered the distain on the sentinels’ faces when they first approached the temple, and how they had scoffed when she called herself an elf. “Abelas and the others made it abundantly clear that they considered me a lesser creature. I am not _their_ people.” She emphasized the word, remembering how Solas had often spoken as though he felt the same way. Given his easy manner amongst the guardians of the temple, however, she had to wonder if she had met his people at last. If the nagging suspicion in the back of her mind proved true… 

He drew his brows together and looked out into the gardens, unwilling to meet her gaze. He remembered the implication as well, and for all his sweet words and indecipherable elvish endearments, he had never considered her one of ‘his people.’ He shook his head, and his voice faltered a little as he spoke.

“You are so much more than that,” he said, the words gentle and pained. He refocused his gaze upon her, straightening again. “I advised him to speak with the people of the tavern, to learn more of this world, and of you. New clothes might not make a new man, but a disguise can be comfort enough when one is amongst strangers.” He shrugged a little, as if he was testing his own worn tunics and shirt.

“And do you think he will join the cause?” she asked, the strangers in his rooms accounted for. Solas gave her a half smile, his posture softening a little.

“His request for me to remove the Vallaslin is answer enough, I believe.” He straightened, tilting his head. “You said that you had questions. I would be happy to answer whatever I can.”

And apparently that was as much of an insight into his thoughts as she was going to get. It gave her enough to think on, at least, although she had hoped that he would give her some indication, allow some truth to slip that confirmed her suspicions. She could outright ask him, of course, but Solas was clever enough to dodge even a direct question, and she did have other concerns on her mind. Concerns beyond Corypheus that frightened her more than some blighted Tevinter mage.

“Walk with me?” she asked, nodding her head to have him follow. They walked a leisurely pace around the garden wall, the original approach she’d planned to use forgotten. Fortunately, the sentinel gave her the perfect opening, and she used that to build up to the nagging fear that had been bothering her.

“When we first met, you asked me about my lack of faith in the Elvhen Gods, and since then, you’ve said that you believe they were mages, not true gods,” she said, feeling her way through the question. “Abelas confirmed that she was a living, breathing woman once. What signs did you find in the Fade that suggested this to you? Did you speak to other sentinels in your travels, or were there spirits who whispered such things to you?”

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that softened his serious expression. “There are no absolute truths in the Fade,” he replied, pausing to stop by one of the parapets. He leaned against it, and she leaned against another, waiting for him to explain. “When you ask a spirit a question, they give you their interpretation of the truth. Cole is a perfect example of how spirits interpret the world.” They both smiled at the thought of trying to get a straight answer from the boy. He was getting better, but his cryptic responses often left things open to interpretation.

“So you got the feeling that the Elvhen gods were just powerful mages, as opposed to actual gods?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“More or less, yes. I am not sure how a spirit would interpret meeting an actual god, or what sort of impression such a being might leave. But when they were mentioned, the Evanuris felt like regular people, with all their whims and foibles,” he said, shrugging as if there was nothing more to say about it.

“The sentinels themselves were impressive enough, diminished as they were in numbers and power. To face them at their prime, in full command of their magic…” she mused aloud, running fingers through her hair. She blew out a long breath, shaking her head. “The Evanuris must have had immense power to be considered gods by the Ancients.” 

“No doubt they had ego enough to match,” quipped Solas, his voice tight and clipped. “Pride always goes before the fall.”

“But that’s what I’m worried about!” she said pushing from the stone to pace in front of him. “Our legends say that the gods were sealed away by the traitor Fen’Harel. We came upon a temple dedicated to the all mother, with guards who swore that she lived and breathed once, long ago.” She scrubbed her face with the palms of her hands, then crossed her arms in front of her, shivering a little. She wasn’t quite sure if it was the mountain air or the unspoken question between them.

“If Mythal and the other gods were real, where is Fen’Harel?” she asked at last, her voice soft.

“Do none of your Dalish legends speak of him?” Solas asked, his voice oddly hollow. She quirked an eyebrow at him, giving him a wry smile.

“You know as well as I that most of the stories involving him were simply morality tales. Silly stories to keep babes from misbehaving, and warnings to adults who would betray the clan.” Her smile faded, and she pursed her lips in thought. “I’m serious though, Solas. If Mythal and the others were real, then he must have been as well. And our legends say that he alone remained free after he imprisoned the Evanuris. If that’s true, where has he been? Do you think he’s just biding his time, waiting for something like this to make his move against the world?”

“And why do you think he would move against it? Could he not have done everything in his power to save it?” Solas asked, voice sharp.

“If he wants to save it, then why isn’t he here? Isn’t Corypheus enough of a threat to draw the trickster god from hiding?” she asked, drawing her arms tighter around herself. “What if we save the world from Corypheus, only to find out that we're facing something much worse?”

Solas’s hand on her shoulder startled her, and she looked up in surprise. He kissed her gently; she was too stunned and confused to react immediatly. All too soon he pulled away, but his hand remained on her shoulder, a warm, solid, grounding presence.

“One battle at a time, Vhenan,” he urged quietly. “Focus on the battle ahead. Do not let yourself be blinded by fear of what may come after.”

He started to pull away, but she recovered quickly enough to catch his arm, keeping him there.

“Wait, what was that?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “Solas, I don’t understand. What’s going on? You tell me it’s over, treat me like a stranger, tell me on the bridge that you we need to focus on the task at hand, and suddenly we’re back to this? Do you actually love me, or is this some sort of game to you?”

He turned his head to look away, but her hand stopped him, tilting his head back to her. He closed his eyes, refusing to return her gaze. “You are right, it was a mistake,” he replied. He drew in a breath, then took a step back, shaking his head and gently pulling her hand away from his face. “A moment of weakness. My apologies.” 

“A mistake?” she asked, tightening her hand on his arm. “Solas, you’ve always been enigmatic, but this is going to ridiculous lengths. Do you mean the kiss, or do you mean everything that came before as well? Why won't you explain?” 

“I can’t,” he said, trying to turn away again. “Please, Inquisitor. If there is nothing else—”

“Don’t you dare walk away again, I know an evasive maneuver when I see one. If it really meant nothing to you, then tell me that, I deserve that much,” she hissed. He still refused to look at her, and her heart clenched. Still she persevered, frustrated enough to push beyond the boundaries she usually gave him. “Tell me it meant nothing, tell me it was all just a lie that you grew tired of keeping, or a casual dalliance to pass the time while we waited for the end. Tell me that you never loved me so I can call you a cold-hearted bastard and move on.” 

“I can’t do that,” he replied, breaking from her grasp. He walked over to the wall and clasped his hands behind his back, looking out to the mountains. “And I cannot give you the answers you seek. Please understand, Vhenan.”

“Harellan,” she spat, clenching her hands into fists. She drew in a deep breath, turning away from him, refusing to watch him walk away from her again.

“ _Fen'Harel ma ghilana._ If he is out there, then may the Dread Wolf take you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you hear that sound? That's the sound of thousands of Solavellans not over Trespasser. It still hurts. T___T
> 
> I have one or two tie-ins planned for this, I'll link them here as I finish them.


End file.
